My Name Is Jennifer Gale
by Marzella
Summary: ...I'm from Minnesota!" The real Henry's wife is taken in by the Others after the balloon crash. But when she is captured by the Losties, she finally learns the truth about her husband's death... BenOC. Seasons 3-4. Please R&R!
1. Interrogation

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Lost or any of its characters.

**A/N: **I came up with the idea for this story months ago, but have only just got round to writing anything down. I haven't decided how it will turn out yet, so please let me know if you think it's worth writing more.

**

* * *

Chapter 1: Interrogation**

"My name is Jennifer Gale! I'm from Minnesota!"

I keep shouting it over and over again but it just seems to make him angrier. He brings his face very close to mine. "I know you're lying," he says sternly. "Tell me the truth!"

"I am telling the truth, I swear!" I'm trembling now, visibly shaking. My breath catches in my throat and the words come out in a strangled wail. I sound like a terrified child and with good reason. I have heard about this man. The Iraqi. The torturer. The bruises had mostly gone from Ben's face when he returned, but I'd heard the others talking about what had happened to him.

"Your leader. He already tried that story and we found him out. He should keep you better informed."

"But I d-don't know what you're..."

"Stop lying!", he screams into my face. I recoil as much as I can, but he has made sure that I am only able to move very little. The rope has begun to rub at the skin on my wrists. They are tied so unbearably tight that there is no way I could work them loose. I have no idea where we are, although I can faintly hear and smell the sea. When I regained consciousness I'd found myself lashed to a tree in the middle of the jungle, with this man standing over me, blocking out the sunlight. The interrogation began immediately; I could not say how long it's been going on. Minutes? An hour? It feels like a lot longer.

I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice level as I speak; "I know what you did to him. Are you going to do the same to me?"

The man produces something from his pocket and holds it up to show me; bamboo shoots, filed down to sharp points. I can only imagine what their use is. "I will do what is necessary," he says simply.

I have heard enough about this man to know he is not afraid of hurting a woman. I feel my heart begin to pound in my chest as I struggle for breath. "Please," I gasp, looking at him imploringly, "please don't hurt me. I swear I'm telling you the truth. I don't know what else to say!"

He sighs and lowers his eyes, a little sadly, before standing and moving behind me. I feel him take hold of my right hand in his and separate each finger. I tense and close my eyes tightly, waiting for the pain to begin. More than anything I hope I don't cry. After all the whimpering and trembling and begging I've just done, it would be nice to retain a shred of my dignity.

You wouldn't expect bamboo inserted under the fingernails to hurt as much as it does. It seems so small, so minor, that when it actually happens, the severity of the pain is an unbelievable shock. I cry out sharply as he pushes the tiny implement deeper under the nails and struggle violently against the ripping, vicious sting. I'm rather disappointed in myself; I know now that, if I had any answers to give him, I wouldn't be very hard to break. Everyone thinks they could withstand a little torture when they see it in movies or on TV. It's easy to be a superwoman in your imagination. Right now, in reality, I don't think I've ever screamed so much in my life, not even when...

"What the bloody hell's going on, Sayid?"

I gasp in relief, feeling my hand being released as my interrogator stands to meet the newcomer. He's young, with blond hair and an English accent. Yes, I've heard about this one too.

"What are you doing to her? Who is she?" He begins to move towards me, a concerned look crossing his open features, but the Iraqi stops him, grabbing both his arms.

"She's one of them, Charlie. We caught her out in the jungle. She is refusing to tell me what they have done with Jack, Kate and Sawyer. She keeps pretending her name is Gale."

The younger man glances over at me, then back at his friend. "Well can't you just... I dunno, ask her nicely, instead of jumping straight to the rack and thumbscrews? It's like Guantanamo bloody Bay round here. She's a _woman_, Sayid."

I wonder why he is defending me. He seems friendly enough and I might have trusted him if I didn't know he was a killer, like most of these people. He shot a man named Ethan in cold blood. To look at him, you wouldn't think he had it in him. He pushes past Sayid and crouches down beside me.

"Er... OK, love. Do you want to tell me what all this is about?"

"I wish I knew," I say, my voice still far too high-pitched and tremulous. _Stop it, Jen, be an adult._ "I was in the jungle, just walking by myself. Next thing I know, someone runs up behind me and hits me over the head. I don't know what I'm supposed to have done wrong. But then, that doesn't matter to you, does it? You don't care whether we're good people or bad."

"We know what you are," Sayid snarls, now standing a few feet away with his arms folded, never taking his eyes off me. "There's nothing good about any of you."

Charlie whips his head round and glares at the other man. "Just let her speak, will you?", he says, before turning back to me. For some reason, he doesn't seem to have completely condemned me yet. There might be some hope. He sits down, cross-legged on the jungle floor opposite me. "Right then. If you co-operate, I promise I won't let him hurt you again," he says. "Do you want to start from the beginning?"

Before I have a chance to open my mouth, Sayid has moved towards Charlie. "What do you think you're doing?", he asks incredulously. "After all they've done to you. To Claire."

Charlie ignores him, turning back to me. "I'm waiting," he says quietly.

I take a deep, shaky breath and begin: "My name is Jennifer Gale. My hot-air balloon crashed on this island just over five months ago. I was travelling with my husband. He wanted to fly across the Pacific in the damn thing – real midllife-crisis stuff – and he talked me into coming with him. Anyway, we... we crashed and... and he died. I was knocked out on the way down and woke up two days later in an infirmary bed. My wounds were dressed, I'd been taken care of. My husband had already been buried. Everyone there has been so kind to me. They looked after me while I recovered, let me stay with them. Now I'll probably never see them again. You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

Charlie looks shocked and a little offended. "Kill you? What kind of people do you think we are?"

"Well, you're _them_," I whisper, my eyes flicking nervously between him and Sayid. "You're the Others."


	2. Widowed

**Chapter 2: Widowed**

_Five Months Ago..._

Unfamiliar voices, faint in the dark.

"_It's been dealt with. We should be OK."_

"_But he..."_

"_Yes, yes, I know, but _she isn't_."_

"_He's sure?"_

"_Mikhail checked. He says he's positive she isn't."_

"_You're telling me she didn't know?"_

"_Apparently not."_

With a great effort, I open my eyes.

"_She's awake. Go get Ben. Quickly." _

The sound of footsteps hurrying away. Warmth. The feel of cotton sheets. The smell of fresh-cut flowers. Light, too much light, and a woman's voice. "It's all right, Jennifer. You're safe now."

"Where am I?". My voice is hoarse and scrapes at my parched throat. "Where's Henry?"

As my eyes adjust to the light in the room, I see her; an older woman, brunette, with a kindly-looking face. "You'll be just fine," she says reassuringly. "You're in the infirmary. You've been asleep for almost three days. I... uh...".

She seems at a loss. Something must be very wrong. I try to move my arms, my legs. Nothing. Oh Jesus.

"Thankyou, I'll take it from here," says another voice – male - from the doorway. The woman moves towards the door silently, after taking one last glance in my direction with what looks like pity in her eyes and gently patting my arm.

The man sits down on the wooden folding chair at my bedside. He must be in his early forties; short, unassuming, with an inquisitive look. "Good morning, Jennifer," he says softly. "My name is Benjamin Linus. Can you tell me what happened?"

"We... crashed...", I begin, recalling the fear, the whooshing sound of the wind, how fast we fell. "I can't move. I can't feel anything. Am I...?"

"You've been given strong painkillers and a numbing sedative. The effects should wear off soon. You've fractured your right arm and ankle and you're quite seriously bruised and cut, but you should be just fine. It won't take long for you to heal, believe me." He smiles at me; a warm, generous smile that transforms his face into something kind, something easy to trust.

"Where am I?"

"You're on an island," he explains. "It doesn't have a name. Even if it had, you wouldn't have heard of it. We use it as a scientific research base. Mostly."

I try to take all this in, but my mind fills with thoughts of my husband. "Henry... Is he OK?", I ask and that smile drops instantly. "Oh God, what? What happened to him?"

"Your husband didn't survive the crash, Jennifer," he answers. "He died on impact. You must have been thrown from the basket during the fall, because you were found lying in the jungle about a half-kilometre away from the crash site. We buried him there yesterday, by the balloon. We wanted to wait, but we weren't sure you would wake up. I'm sorry."

I should cry, or panic, or scream, but I don't. I feel numb and hope the sedative they've given me is the reason. I just lie here, unable to do anything else, staring straight ahead. I wonder how long it will take to sink in, before I start sobbing and wailing and tearing at my hair. That's what a grieving widow is supposed to do, isn't it? They're not supposed to just lie still and do nothing. Despite everything, Henry deserves better than this.

"Would you like me to leave you alone?", the man asks. With a good deal of effort, I manage to turn my head to face him. It is the look on his face, not the news of Henry's death, which finally causes my eyes to fill with tears. To say he looks concerned doesn't really do him justice. I have no idea who he is, but right now, I am glad he's here. 

"No," I say. "No, please stay."

He leans over and takes my unbandaged left hand, slowly, hesitantly, as if he expects me to flinch and pull away from him. I grasp his hand gratefully and we remain like this for what seems like a very long time, neither of us speaking another word.


	3. The Two Henry Gales

**Chapter 3: The Two Henry Gales**

Charlie stares at me in disbelief. "'Scuse me?"

"The Others. That's what they call you. You're the Oceanic survivors. The murderers."

"That's a bit rich coming from..."

"Ethan, Goodwin, Colleen... All the people you've killed. You would have done the same to Ben if he hadn't escaped."

"Ben?", says Sayid. _Oh, nicely done, Jen. _"Thankyou. I didn't know his real name. We only knew him as Henry Gale."

"What?"

"He told us he was from Minnesota and that his balloon crashed on the island. Rather a familiar story, don't you think?"

"No, no, you've got it wrong," I start, frantically shaking my head. "Henry was..."

"He mentioned a Jennifer. His wife. He said she died of a fever days after the crash."

I remember what Ben told me about these people. _Never trust them. Never believe them. They always lie. _I have no idea how they found out about Henry, but this is just an attempt to confuse me, to try and make me give something away. "It won't work, you know," I say defiantly.

"What won't?"

"All this, all these lies about my Henry, about Ben. It wouldn't fool a five-year-old. If these are your tactics, no wonder Ben isn't losing sleep over you."

"And you'd know, would you?", Sayid asks, raising an eyebrow. "What's your maiden name, Jennifer?"

"Murphy. Why?"

"And where did you meet your husband?"

"University of Minnesota. What has this...?"

"It's all sounding a little too familiar, isn't it?", Sayid says to Charlie.

"That's what he told us," says Charlie. "or so I heard, anyway. Stuck to his story for ages, even after..." He glances at Sayid, who silences him with a glare.

"He even drew us a map to the crash site," Sayid continues. "The balloon wasn't the only thing we found there. A man's body, buried in a shallow grave. He had a licence in the name of Henry Gale."

"I know that. My husband. He died in the crash."

"Oh he did, did he? Then can you explain to me how he managed to write a note to his wife, despite being dead?"

It must be ninety degrees out here and yet I still turn cold.

"We found it in his wallet," Sayid continues, a trace of smugness crossing his features, "written on a twenty-dollar bill."

"You're lying," I tell him, more to convince myself than him. "You're lying!"

"We are not the liars here."

"All right then," I say, looking Sayid squarely in the eye. "Show me. Show me Henry's licence. Show me the note."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"It was lost."

Sayid may be a thoroughly frightening interrogator, but lying clearly isn't his forte. "How convenient," I snap, with a mirthless laugh. "I'm going to make a wild stab in the dark here, _Sayid_, and put it to you that your twenty-dollar bill never existed in the first place."

"I can assure you that it existed."

"But it got lost."

"Yes."

"Well have you tried retracing your steps?" It must be the fear making me giddy and somehow confident enough to provoke him. Thankfully he does not rise to it.

"Look, we're getting nowhere here," Charlie says resignedly. "Let's just take her back to the beach and figre out how to deal with this."

"Take her back to the camp?", Sayid asks incredulously.

"She's tied up, what harm can she do? Look, I've got to get back to Claire. Are you coming or what?"

Sayid pauses for a moment, then walks around the tree behind me. A moment later, I feel the ropes dropping from my wrists, then a rough hand on my arm as he pulls me to my feet. "I wouldn't try to run," he warns, before pushing me ahead of him in the direction of the beach.


	4. Lipstick

4. LIPSTICK

_Five Months Ago_

I look ridiculous.

I'm wearing a shirt and jeans - freshly-laundered and returned to me, along with almost everything else they had managed to salvage from the balloon – and vivid red lipstick. I'm not sure why I put it on. Possibly in the vain hope that it might detract from the deep bruising around my right eye. Possibly just force of habit. Back home, I wouldn't leave the house without it. Henry thought I was insane packing make-up for a balloon flight, but I didn't care. I may be a wreck inside, but wearing that deep red next to my pale skin and auburn hair makes me feel like Rita Hayworth, however removed from the reality that may be.

I stare at myself in the full-length mirror. It feels strange being here, in this place. They've given me a house of my own in 'the barracks', as they call this little village of theirs. It's a lot smaller than I'm used to of course, but it feels rather big and empty now that I'm alone. _Alone._ I try not to let myself think that word. After all, I'm surrounded by people, all of whom seem kind and concerned and welcoming. _But Henry is gone. _

There is a knock at the door. I do not move for a few moments, before realising that I'm not in Minnesota any more; there is no maid to answer it for me. I hear the knock again and rush to open the door. Ben is standing outside. Of course. It's two o'clock. He always comes to see me at two o'clock. The man is fond of his routine.

"You didn't have to make such an effort on my account," he says, with the slightest smirk. _Damn it, why didn't I take off this stupid lipstick?_

"I... I guess I needed something normal," I explain, a little sheepishly.

"I understand," he smiles. "You look like Rita Hayworth."

"Oh right," I scoff, gesturing to my black eye, "Rita Hayworth after she's walked into a door." I try to shrug off the compliment, but if I'm honest, I'm pleasantly surprised. It's a complete lie, of course, but it's nice that he said it. Henry never did.

A few minutes later, we are seated in the cosy living-room, both drinking tea. Ben notices the pile of books on the coffee table and begins examining each title silently.

"Amelia brought them for me," I explain. "To pass the time. They're not what I usually read, but..."

"Danielle Steel? Stephen King? I should hope not," he replies, barely keeping the scorn out of his voice.

"I appreciate the gesture though," I add hastily.

"So what do you usually read?", he asks.

"Anything and everything," I tell him. "I was halfway through _Anna Karenina_ in the balloon. Again. I've lost count of how many times I've read it. I suppose it got lost in the crash..." Ben stares at me, clearly rather surprised. "What did you imagine I'd say? _Cosmopolitan_? Just because I'm a rich housewife, that doesn't mean I have one lonely brain cell banging around in my skull."

"The thought never even crossed my mind."

"Liar."

"I have a copy of _Anna Karenina_ at home," Ben says, sipping his tea. "You're quite welcome to borrow it if you like. If there's anything else, just ask. If it's worth reading, it's more than likely I own it."

"Thankyou. I'd like that."

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I take a deep breath, my gaze dropping to the floor. "Can I go and see Henry? I mean, his grave..." The words sound so incredibly wrong. Henry is only 45. _Was_.

Ben shakes his head. "I'm afraid you're nowhere near well enough. It's a difficult walk and you still need to rest."

"I've been resting for nearly two weeks, Ben. I feel stronger, I really do." It's the truth. My fractures seem to have healed remarkably quickly. The sling was taken off my right arm two days ago and I can walk again, albeit with the help of a cane for longer distances. The cuts and bruises on my face and body – with the exception of my rather spectacular black eye – have all but disappeared.

"Jennifer, please. Listen to me. You can barely walk unaided. In a few days, maybe we can think about it, but for now, it's best that you stay here. Now, is there anything you need?"

"Did you manage to contact my family? Or Henry's parents?"

Ben sighs and removes his glasses; little round ones that would make anyone else look silly but rather suit him. He fixes me with that stare of his, one I have become uncomfortably familiar with these past couple of weeks. Ben's stare is like nothing I've ever encountered. He seems to look at me as if I were the only other person on earth and makes me feel as scared and lonely as if I really was. His gaze seems to take in every last part of me and makes me feel a thousand times more conscious of my flaws. They say the eyes are the window on the soul; Ben's eyes are a mirror into my own.

"I'm afraid all communication off the island is impossible at present," he says regretfully. "We are somewhat cut off from the rest of the world here; all the better for us to concentrate on our work. Occasionally food and medical supplies are delivered by air, but we have no way of contacting the delivery plane. There's really nothing I can do."

"So, what happens to me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How do I get home? When I'm well again, how do I get back home?"

"You don't," he says matter-of-factly.

I laugh uneasily, imagining this to be Ben's rather strange idea of a joke. "Not ever? That's ridiculous. There must be a boat, or..."

"I'm sorry, Jennifer. There's no way back. Not for the foreseeable future anyway."

Almost immediately, my eyes start to fill with tears and my throat grows tight. "But I have a life in Minnesota," I protest, half-sobbing. "Friends. Family. They don't even know if I'm alive. I can't just stay here. I have my own life, Ben."

"And what kind of life is it, Jennifer?", he asks, his voice stern. "You've lost your husband. Your so-called friends are vapid non-entities who only maintain their interest in you because you can pay their way. Your loving family comprises a brother in Boston who never bothers to call you and a father who hasn't stayed sober enough to act like a parent for twenty years. Of course you'd have a vast sum of money to go back to, but something tells me that wouldn't make you happy. It never did before. You are welcome here as long as you like. We're good people, Jennifer. You could start again here. This island could be your home."

I rise quickly and move away from him to the far side of the room, leaning on the desk for support. "How do you know so much about me?", I ask, my head swimming.

He stands and walks across the room until he is standing opposite me, a look of perfect innocence on his face. He lays a gentle hand on my arm. "When we brought you into the barracks you were unconscious for two days. I sat at your bedside at every opportunity I had." He fixes me with that gaze again and smiles, just a little. "You talk in your sleep."


	5. Enigma

5. ENIGMA

"He hurt you pretty badly there, sister."

He is looking at my rope-burned wrists and the fingers of my right hand; bloodied, raw and extremely sore. "Lucky for me I'm a leftie then," I reply curtly.

The ropes have come off now. After I told my interrogators what had happened to me, Charlie had persuaded Sayid to bring me to their beach. They have guessed, correctly, that I will not try to run or fight if one of them is guarding me. Now, as the daylight slowly fades into evening, it is this man's turn. He says his name is Desmond. I have never heard his name mentioned before and I know nothing about him. We are sitting together on the sand, about ten feet from the water. A cool breeze blows his long hair off his face.

"You're not one of them," I guess. "I mean, if you were one of the crash survivors, I'd know about you. "You weren't on the plane, were you?".

"Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't," he says jokingly. "I prefer to remain an enigma."

"That's a no then." He grins at me. I'm not in the mood to appreciate it. "What's going to happen to me? You all keep saying you're not going to kill me, so... what?".

"Can't say as I know that," Desmond replies. "It's not really my decision to make. They might try and trade you."

"For what?"

"For Jack, Kate and Sawyer. If they can't go in and take their friends back from your people, maybe they'll be able to bargain. Although that pretty much depends on how much you're worth."

"He'll want me back." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Desmond raises a quizzical eyebrow.

"And who might that be, sister?"

"No one." I try changing the subject to a question I've been wanting to ask for the last hour. "Why do you keep calling me 'sister'? I thought I was Public Enemy Number One in these parts."

"Force of habit," he replies, chuckling to himself as if enjoying some private joke. "Also, I know a little about you, Jennifer. Enough to know you're a decent person. Enough to know you can be trusted."

I stare at him, hardly able to believe what he has just said. He must be able to see the surprise and relief on my face. I've never been good at hiding my emotions. "You believe me?"

"Aye. I do."

"Have you told that to the rest of them?"

"Oh, they'll come round. It might take a little time though. Be patient."

"How are you so sure you can trust me?"

"Well, that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

"Oh come on. Is that all I get?"

Desmond doesn't reply. Instead he stands, stretches and begins to walk away. I see Sayid coming towards me on the beach. "Looks like my shift's over then, Jennifer", he calls over his shoulder. "Don't worry. You won't come to any harm. Goodnight."

"Wait!", I shout after him, but he does not turn back.


	6. Lemonade

6. LEMONADE

_Four Months Ago_

Ben opens the door and seems a little surprised to see me. No wonder really, given that I've spent the last week stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his presence or anyone else's after throwing him out of my house demanding that he let me go home.

"Ben. Hi." I do my best to sound a little more cheerful. It almost works.

"Good morning, Jennifer," he says, a little cagily. "To what do I owe this visit?"

I rest my hand on the door frame and start to tap out a rhythm with my fingertips. It's something I do when I feel nervous and it used to get on Henry's nerves like nothing else on earth. "Well...", I begin, not entirely sure how to continue. "I've been thinking. A lot. About how I'm pretty much stuck here, about Henry, about how I have no one now. Henry always used to churn out that terrible saying, you know, 'If life gives you lemons, make lemonade'..." Ben rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I always hated that. But, well, what I mean to say is, if I have to be here... there are worse places to be stranded. I mean, Henry could have taken me trekking in the Arctic Circle or something. If I have to stay here, I may as well make the best of it." 

"I'm glad you feel that way, Jennifer," he says, smiling slightly.

"And I want to make myself useful," I continue. "I'm not going to stay here eating your food and living in one of your houses for free. I've done enough of that to last me a lifetime. I want to earn my keep."

He leans back against the door frame, folding his arms. "All right," he says. "What can you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"What can you _do_? What are you good at?"

"I... Well, I...". It suddenly dawns on me that I have nothing whatsoever to offer these people. I have never really worked in my life. I have no skills, no knowledge; I'm completely useless. I feel the blush rising in my cheeks as I realise I have no answer to give him.

"I wouldn't worry, Jennifer," he says reassuringly. "The time will come, sooner than you think, when you'll be invaluable to us."

"That might be a little too optimistic of you," I sigh.

* * *

Alexandra is only sixteen and she is far more valuable to this community than I could ever be. She is able to track, hunt and survive out in the jungle as well as being in possession of a rather intimidating intelligence. She has been the only one I have allowed to speak to me over the last fortnight and has been the closest thing I have had to a friend here. I imagine she misses having a female influence in her life. All the other women here, though always courteous, do not seem particularly close to her. I wonder what happened to her mother, but I have never felt it appropriate to ask, not yet. After my visit to Ben's house, I find her sat on the porch outside my house, waiting for me.

"Are you OK now?", she asks, standing to greet me.

"I think I will be, yes."

"That's good. I'm glad."

We both sit and remain silent for a few moments, watching the others, whose names I have yet to learn, going about their business. Whatever that may be. I have asked Alex about the nature of this place and of their work, but she is always evasive.

"Be careful around my dad, OK?", she says suddenly, without turning to look at me.

"What do you mean by that?", I ask.

"Just... that you can't trust him."

"Alex..."

She looks at me, her blue eyes as intense as her father's. "I'm serious."

"Alex, your father has been very good to me. I know you two don't exactly get along, but you're sixteen. When I was sixteen, I hated my father too. It's what usually happens." I neglect to mention the fact that, thirteen years on, the hatred I feel for my father hasn't gone away.

She looks a little affronted. "This isn't just a phase, Jennifer. Do you have any idea who he is? What he can do? What he's already done to-"

"Hey Alex."

We both look up to see the stocky figure of Tom looming over us. He smiles genially. "I'm sorry, Jennifer," he says. "She can be a little dramatic sometimes."

"Tom-", Alex starts, but he cuts her off before she can continue.

"Your dad wants to see you, Alex. Come on."

She stands, reluctantly, and turns back to me. "I'm really glad you're staying, Jennifer," she says. "I like you a lot. But I meant what I said."

Tom begins to lead her away, looking at me over his shoulder and rolling his eyes a little. "Teenagers, huh?", he says, before turning away and leading Alex to Ben's house.


End file.
